Silver and Black
by FeanorusRex
Summary: Queen Berúthiel goes south, home.


Berúthiel was alone finally. Here in this tiny, floating boat, she had achieved utter solitude. All her life she had fled from others, shirking their company. When she was first sent from Umbar, as a political bride, a fourteen year old peace offering to be married at twenty, no different from a piece of land or a piece of meat in a primitive tribe, she would sit for hours at a time, closed in on herself, not able to move, feeling terrified as the time ran past her, but unable to stop losing it. Human contact was hard at times like that, with her mind feeling clenched, screaming over the words that people spoke. Berúthiel eventually got used to the loneliness that came with living in a place where everyone regarded you as a spy, and with a husband in a loveless marriage. Of course she was a spy, later, after she realized that these people would never accept her, but when she came north she had been a scared girl in a silver dress worn with travel. Now she was a woman in a black dress and a boat, out to sea, banished, going home.

She had never been sure where the cats came from, living as she had in the southern regions, where things were often bizarre or off slightly, so steeped in dark magic was the place. The the animals appeared in her rooms one day, one white, eight black, and she took them in. They did not speak in human tongue, and when she read their memories- for she was as good a witch as any- they appeared to be the minds of ordinary cats, but they seemed to have a sense of what she would want to see, and they understood enough of her commands when she spoke to them to make her wonder if they were not something more than ordinary felines. She brought them north with her and was allowed to keep them because the Númenoreans regarded them as ordinary cats, in the beginning at least.

They did not have names, for Berúthiel thought that they must have their own private ones, and if they did not want her to know them, that was their business. She could relate, for her name was not really Berúthiel; that was only the translated version in someone else's language. However she had no trouble telling them apart, though they may look very much the same, with their smooth fur, all white or black, and their green eyes, striking in their small faces.

In Númenor, Bethúriel had not been a ruling queen, as it was termed to the north by their 'pure,' cousins. Rather she had been the wife of the king and that was all. While her group of people was called black, evil, traitors to the gods of the elves, she often reflected that at least they were not plagued by laws against people because of their sex. While oppression did exist in her home realm, it was applied equally to all and not only to women. The concept of justice was merely restricted wholesale, and the unfair laws were blanket ones, not exceptions for female first born children. The southern people worshiped Melkor, a male, and Darkness, a female. An equal balance, and equal partnership. Not so in Númenor, where half of their spirits were women, but acknowledging them as queens did not spill over into everyday lives of these men. There were ordinary women, who were lessers, and Varda, Nienna, and Uinen, others; she did not pay attention in their worship, were holy beings.

That was the crime of the Eru, trying to remove Melkor from the first song. Had he not deviated from the mean, how would the other spirits have known what the 'good' was? If things were indeed evil, then they acted as a form which good people could shun. If there was no evil, then good would have nothing to differentiate itself from, and then it could not be truly good, since it would be the only thing in existence. Berúthiel thought a lot, when she could not speak to others.

In Umbar power could be shared between two people, but not here apparently. "Duumviracy," she had said to her newly met betrothed, trying to explain her homeland's system of ruling. But the word for having two leaders was not in the northern dialect which diverged from hers because of the people's time apart. Her country's dual rulers bound themselves to each other by magic, so that any physical harm done by one to the other was done to self as well, thus preventing assassinations. Berúthiel could have been one of them, but she was sent off to Gondor for a political alliance that she could see was a sham, even from the beginning.

Customs such as these and a desire to worship a different god, made them evil in the eyes of the northern kings. They were named Black Númenoreans, and their northern cousins would be white, though she was sure that they never called themselves that. Light and dark, so simple. Easily divided. The only colors that pleased Bethúriel. There was no room for vacillation. Either there was color or there was not. She only wore black or silver, not only to set herself apart from the Gondorians, but because they were the main colors of magic, black charcoal lines on the floor, that must be erased before the maids came the next morning, silver stones for protection. Red was the other color of sorcery, red blood dripping off her fingers, cut from her fingers, cut herself to finish a spell. But Berúthiel did not wear red because red was in her veins, charmed and witchy. Black and silver suited her coloring: white skin and black hair, another thing to mark her among these people, whose skins were colors from dark brown to freckled white.

Her cats did not terrorize the men of Gondor, anymore than anyone terrorized her. They all looked at her suspiciously, with their huge eyes, and her cats did the same back.

The cats were her only refuge in this land of too many colors and too many gods. Her marriage was loveless, and she had no children, and no friends. She wrote letters, back home, thinking that they might be read, knowing that if a Númenorian women were in the same situation hers certainly would be. "Mama, Mama, I miss you so much," she wrote, in their own dialect, making her writing as messy as possible to obscure it from prying eyes. "Let me come home, please."

Her mother responded that she must stay. It was the agreement between their people. "I am one of the main party in this agreement," Berúthiel wrote back, "and I did not consent." But that was the same argument she had before she was told to go. That was early on in her new life, and she tried to think of other things to write.

She avoided her husband, Tarannon Falastur as much as possible. He was not a bad youth, but they hated each other on principle of their backgrounds, and they lived apart even after their wedding. They did not touch, no one made her have children, because no one wanted to have a half evil child on the throne, and Berúthiel was a virgin even to this day, because she would never lie with anyone in this white city.

Shs had killed very few people in Gondor, for those spells were very difficult. When performing one, Berúthiel had fallen unconscious for days and nearly died. At least she had an alibi when the woman was found dead. Mostly Berúthiel used her magic to see her homeland, and when that became too painful, she would watch the places where her cats were not allowed. It was this way that she learned of her husband's plans to banish her ahead of time. Then she had killed her final person, before she was sent off. He was a nephew, intended for the crown. With him out of the way the throne could, maybe pass to his younger sister. But she knew these people, so perhaps not.

They will destroy her statues, silver twisted things, that she had added to the regimented gardens in Osgiliath. These were not magic, she simply enjoyed their making. At least women were allowed to sculpt here. Once the molten metal splattered over her hands as she poured into molds and all she could think was how nice the silver looked on her skin, even as it burned her. Berúthiel treated the wounds herself, not wanting anyone else to see her injury.

And now she had been banished, by her husband who had power over even the queen. If one ruler in her home had tried to banish the other...It was unheard of. She could not even imagine it. It could not happen. It just could not. Berúthiel had been given a small boat, with no sail or paddle, and set adrift on the waves. This was called justice, letting her die of starvation, or thirst, or torn apart by sharks if the vessel capsized. She had been accused to no crime, but simply that she could no longer be queen. "I am not your queen," Berúthiel responded. "And I never was."

This Black Númenorean was out at sea, but she was going home. Her hatred of the sea was another thing that set her apart from these people. The water was something that could not be reckoned with or controlled by magic, and in Gondor, she was consumed by frequent dreams of the sea overwhelming everything in this kingdom. Erendis, another foreign queen that Berúthiel found in their history books had hated the sea too, and she had not been murdered for it, but then Erendis had not been from Umbar either.

Berúthiel had been put out to sea, not even killed, they were too weak to do that. Had a spy been found in her realm she would have put them to death, swiftly, in front of all the people, but here she was put in a small boat, and set a drift. He head by drowning or starvation or thirst could be removed from these people, and they could keep their hands clean.

Berúthiel was not worried about her lack of supplies. She was trained in magic, 'black magic,' some would say, and her separate quarters and solitude had prove advantageous in developing her skills. She had been allowed to bring anything with her, save her cats, but the power resided in her blood, and even now the boat was moving swiftly, without wind or waves, in a direction that she had directed it. The sea parted sullenly at the boats coming, but it did not slow her progress. When she was far enough away that no one would recognize her, she would disembark, and travel south, south to home.

She had seen what was to come, and now those dreams of a drowning sea made sense. Telling the future took much blood and the criss crossing lines on her arms were still healing but it had been worth it. These people would perish, but hers would not.

Berúthiel did not know what she would do back in her land. She had been sent away because of their customs, Númenor gots a offering of a young girl, and the Black Númenoreans got an assurance of peace, but Berúthiel had not chosen to be banished, and because of her cat spies, she knew that their peace was tenuous at best. She did not have many people to see back at home. Her parents were dead, because their people had shorter life spans, and no solution had yet been found. But Berúthiel wanted to be far away from the sea and from gaudy colors, and she still had some living friends. This astounded those in Númenor who could not believe that loving relationships could exist among her people.

She need not even go back to the royal household, she could live simply anywhere, alone as a witch, with her animals. The wind from the sea blew in her face, but Berúthiel did not mind, for her cats where with her, she was alone, and soon she would be home.


End file.
